One And Done

by Cynthia Sax

  I shook, more scared than I’d ever been in my short life.

  “We didn’t lose everything, love.” My dad hooked his right arm around my mom’s waist, drawing her to him. He rested his left hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his palm permeated my thin cotton shirt, soothing my terror. “We have each other.” He paused, forcing a smile, a bleakness in his eyes. “And we have family. We’ll always have a place to stay.”

  He was right. When we showed up on Grandma Whyte’s doorstep, she took one look at my dad’s face, muttered something about proud fools, and ushered us into her four-bedroom home, telling us we could stay as long as we needed.

  We’d have to earn our keep, she stressed as she mixed a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, my dad’s favorite treat. He would be responsible for maintaining the yard, clearing the driveway of snow in the winter and for completing repairs around the house. My mom would be in charge of the cleaning and the laundry. I’d help Grandma Whyte with the baking.

  My dad eventually found a job but we never moved out. We lived with my grandma until she died. She’d become my confidant, my best friend, and I howled for a week after the funeral.

  Grandma Whyte left the house to my parents. I inherited her recipe box, the papers inside stained brown with the vanilla extract she made herself.

  The recipe I used to make the chocolate chip cookies for Edward and for Woofer had been written on one of those papers, in her familiar scrawl.

  “You just missed a Ferrari, Miss ‘Nella.” The car-crazy kid shakes with excitement. “A 488 GTB, red, mint-condition, 3.9-liter V8 engine, two turbochargers.”

  “That sounds powerful.” Knowing nothing about cars, I try to look suitably impressed. “Don’t wait here all night for it to drive past again.” I muss the boy’s unruly mop of black hair. “Get to a shelter before they fill up.”

  “Shelters are for old people,” he grumbles, bumping against me.

  “Shelters are for all people.” I hand him a paper bag stuffed with two turkey sandwiches, heavy on the vegetable fixings, a bottle of orange juice, and the cookies. “What do I get for this?” Woofer doesn’t accept charity. He has his pride also.

  “Since you got your paper already, I guess it’ll have to be a hug, but I don’t like it.”

  He lies. He loves it. The kid is starved for touch.

  “Then give it to me.” I open my arms. He squeezes me, thumping the bag against my back. I hug him to me. He allows this embrace for a couple of heartwarming moments before wriggling away from me.

  “Did you make oatmeal raisin?” He looks in the bag.

  “Chocolate chip.”

  “You made these cookies for him.” Woofer scowls. When the kid first appeared at his post, about a year ago, he mouthed off to me, in typical teenager style. Being protective of me, Edward took offense. He threatened to call the cops and have the kid arrested. Woofer hasn’t forgiven him.

  “I made the sandwiches especially for you.” I give him one more quick hug, which earns me a grimace and some under-the-breath cussing. “I don’t want to see lettuce and tomatoes on the sidewalk when I get back.”

  I ignore his grumbles and walk toward the subway station.

  There’s the usual collection of homeless people gathered around the entrance. Some of them are the same age as my dad was when he lost his job.

  I say hi to them, addressing the men and women I know by name, and enter the underground.

  The train arrives almost immediately. I select a seat near the door and I gaze around me. It’s a hot summer night. The air conditioning in the car is under strain, whirring loudly.

  I’m the only person in the subway car wearing a coat. Many of the women are wearing short skirts and sleeveless shirts. A couple of the men are in shorts.

  Why am I doing this?

  Edward loves me, wants me, needs me. We haven’t seen each other during these past two weeks because his work has been crazy. I don’t have to dress like an actress in a very bad porno film to garner his attention. I’ve had it since the very first moment we met.

  Edward and I had both been attending a fancy charity gala. I wasn’t supposed to be there. My billionaire boss had been called out of town at the last minute. There had been an emergency involving one of the company’s low-income housing projects.

  Mr. Powers had sent me to the gala in his stead, entrusting me with the task of relaying his very generous donation to the hostess. Edward had been given a ticket by Mr. Barron, one of the partners at his firm.

  I knew very few of the guests. Edward knew no one. Arianna, our hostess, introduced us. Edward looked dashing in a black tuxedo, the lights shining on his blond hair, his eyes the lightest shade of blue.

  He took my hand, bent his head, and gallantly kissed my fingertips. My heart skipped a beat. It was so romantic. When Arianna flitted to her next guests, moving out of earshot, he declared I was the prettiest girl in the room.

  And that was it. I was a goner, head over heels. No man had ever said those words to me. No one had ever looked at me as though I was the center of his universe.

  These past two weeks, he’s been working hard, trying to get ahead for me, for us, for our future. I have to be understanding, appreciative.

  Sweat drips down my spine, slips between my ass cheeks.

  A trio of blue-jean-wearing, spike-haired tough guys move in front of me. They’re clad in T-shirts, their bared arms tanned and tattooed. The tallest one looks my way, his mouth moves and they all laugh.

  I set the tin of cookies on my lap and run my palms over my borrowed coat, ensuring the buttons remain fastened, that there are no gaps in the material, revealing my clothing…or lack thereof underneath.

  They can’t see anything. It’s sweltering and I’m overdressed, and they might suspect I’m up to something but they don’t know what that something is.

  The subway car’s doors slide open at St. Andrew station. A gray-haired man wearing a long, tan, trench coat enters. He shuffles between the seats.

  My shoulders lower. I’m not the only one overdressed.

  The man sits on the seat across from me. His legs spread and his coat gaps open, revealing hairy bare legs. I blink. Under the trench coat, he’s sporting brown loafers, long white sport socks with red stripes around the cuffs.

  Oh my God. That’s the uniform of flashers everywhere.

  The man is naked under his coat.

  Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.

  I can’t control my eyeballs. My gaze lifts and meets his. The man nods at me and has the audacity to wink, as though we share a dirty secret.

  My face heats. He thinks I’m a fellow flasher, that I plan to expose myself, to show my naked body to unsuspecting men and women.

  I’m going to kill Azure.

  Chapter Two

  The next subway station—Osgoode—is mine. I exit, thankfully, alone. The flasher, my new friend, doesn’t follow me. I guess exposing himself along a street lined with law firms and a courthouse is too brazen even for him.

  I stride to the building Edward works in, push my way though the glass revolving doors and enter the lobby. The space smells of bleach, the white tiled floor gleaming.

  “Watch your step, Miss Jenelly.” Craig, the nighttime security guard, calls out from his post behind the reception desk. “The floor’s still wet.”

  “I w—” I skid and flail my arms in the air, barely keeping upright. “I will.” I regain my footing and smile, feeling like an idiot. “Thank you.”

  “You’re a hoot.” Craig laughs, his belly, encased in a tight gray uniform, jiggling. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you were avoiding me.”

  “Why would you think that?” I open the tin and offer him a cookie.

  Craig peruses the selection and chooses the largest one. “Mr. Langston has been meeting you outside the office all this week.” He bites into the cookie, chews. “Usually you come in and say hello to me.”

  I frown. “Edward has been
working late all this week.” Hasn’t he? Doubt flickers inside me, which is ridiculous because Edward has never lied to me. “That’s why I’m here.” I close the cookie tin. “I want to surprise him.”

  It’s Craig’s turn to frown. “But you saw him at dinner.”

  “At dinner?” We haven’t eaten dinner together in months.

  “Yeah.” The security guard’s forehead furrows. “I overheard Mr. Langston tell Mr. Barron, one of the partners, that he was meeting you for dinner at Paros. That’s a nice place.”

  Paros is a nice place, the type of restaurant a lawyer wanting to impress clients would eat at. I relax. “He must have been meeting with a client.”

  The lines on Craig’s face deepen. “He specifically said he was treating his woman to a romantic dinner for two.”

  Many people walk through the law firm’s doors. Craig must have mixed up his conversations. I decide to be the bigger person, literally, and drop the issue. “Has Edward returned from that dinner?”

  “Not yet.” The security guard pops the last piece of cookie into his mouth. “Are you certain he wasn’t meeting with you?”

  Would I be here if he had met with me? “I’m certain.” I suppress my irritation. It’s not the security guard’s fault I’ve misplaced my boyfriend.

  I’ve misplaced my boyfriend. This gives me an idea.

  I dig my phone out of my pocket and select the tracker app. A year ago, after Edward lost his phone for the fifth time in five days, he gave me permission to trace its whereabouts.

  The results are instant, an address appearing on the screen. His phone is currently at 240 Adelaide Street West, in the heart of the entertainment district. The last of my foolish fears fade. Some of Edward’s newest clients own bars and restaurants. He must be visiting the locations for work. Perhaps he’s doing research.

  I could assist with this research. For the last nine years, I’ve worked for Powers Corporation, a Toronto real estate company. I’ll share my insights on real estate prices, utilities, property taxes, and other related expenses, prove to him once again that we make a great team, that I can help his career.

  Then I’ll ditch the coat and show him I can please him in other ways. I smile. The sexual tension inside me will dissipate. He’ll fall even deeper in love with me, commit to me, to us, completely.

  I glance down at my ringless left hand. This could prompt him to propose, to make our relationship even more permanent. We’ll be one step closer to having that big family I dream of, a love-filled buffer against an often tumultuous world.

  “Craig?”

  “Yes, Miss Jenelly?”

  “Could you call me a cab?”

  ***

  The taxi driver drops me off in front of a cube-shaped building. A spotlight illuminates the sign on its roof. Smoke. The name sounds familiar. This club must belong to one of Edward’s clients.

  I study the structure. It’s situated on prime real estate. The property taxes must be hefty. The utilities bill would be high also.

  The frosted windows are brightly lit, silhouettes of women appearing on the glass. There’s exactly one dancer per frame, perfectly placed.

  That must be their job—to dance in windows. How were they chosen? Did they go to school for this?

  I picture a stuffy tweed-garbed professor standing at the front of a classroom, droning on and on about the ideal speed to shake one’s ass and my lips twitch.

  The training process, whatever it was, worked. The dancers are accomplishing their goal—to attract guests. A crowd circles the club. The line to get into the club stretches along the paved perimeter.

  As I study the club goers, two scantily clad waifs wobble toward the biggest, broadest man I’ve ever seen. He’s imposing, as large as the door he’s guarding, his arms crossed, his feet braced apart.

  I clasp my tin of cookies tighter, daunted by his size.

  The girls either don’t have the sense to be intimidated or they don’t care. They giggle and smile, teetering on their high heels, one strong breeze away from falling over.

  The doorman listens to their nonsense for a minute or two, his darkening expression hinting at his irritation. Just when I’m convinced he’ll deny them, sending their bony asses to the back of the line, he unclips the velvet rope, his bulging biceps straining the seams of his ill-fitting black blazer.

  The doorman waves the girls into the building and refastens the velvet rope, acting as though he hasn’t seen the dozens of people standing in line along the sidewalk.

  Groans rise from the club kids. And club kids is the right description. These infants are predominantly male and young, so damn young, their faces round and smooth, their bodies not yet filled out with muscle and time.

  They smell of cheap cologne and desperation, as though not getting into this club tonight will result in a lifetime alone. I remember that feeling, only too well.

  Thank God, I have Edward now. I no longer have to worry about hooking up, no longer have to sift through hundreds of would-be players to find one worthy man. I’ve already met the love of my life, the future father of my children.

  Eager to see that wonderful man, I stride to the front of the line.

  “Uh-oh Dave, your mom is here,” one of the club kids yells. His sneer makes him appear more cute than fierce.

  I doubt he’s legal. He looks like he’s ten, not the required nineteen.

  “Fuck you,” a pretty blond child cusses. The two jostle each other, jabbing stomachs with elbows.

  I ignore them and their insults. Edward loves me the way I am. His opinion is all that matters.

  “Good evening.” I smile at the doorman. His grumpy expression doesn’t change. “I’m meeting my boyfriend, Edward Langston. He’s already inside.” I step forward.

  The doorman shifts to the left, blocking me. “The line is to your right, ma’am.”

  I glance over my shoulder. I’m not waiting in line. That could take hours.

  “I’ll call him.” I dig my phone out of my pocket. “He’ll come and get me.”

  “If he leaves the building, I can’t allow him back inside.”

  “What?” I stare at the doorman.

  “Those are the rules, ma’am.” The big man shrugs. “No re-entry.”

  “You don’t understand.” He mustn’t or he’d let me in. “Edward is here for business. He’s a lawyer.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the Queen of England.” The doorman sounds as exasperated as I feel. “He won’t be allowed back into the club. Join the end of the line. We’re at capacity.”

  I glance at the line. There are wrappers from Bob’s Burger Barn and disposable cups from trendy coffee shops scattered around the club kids’ feet. They’ve been waiting for a while.

  I don’t have time for this. “I—”

  “Join the end of the line, ma’am.” The doorman gestures in that direction.

  “Moove along, lady,” Dave, the club kid, yells, setting off a wave of moos and increasingly ignorant comments.

  The doorman is doing the world a favor, not allowing these creatures to breed.

  I’m thankful once again that I have Edward, a man who appreciates me, who sees past my dress size. I don’t belong in this club.

  As though the universe wishes to drive this realization home, a trio of bleary-eyed size-nothing blondes approach us. “Hi, Tyrice.” The head blonde waves at the bodyguard. “Is it bring-your-mom-to-work day?” The other girls giggle.

  Was I ever that young?

  Or thin?

  Or stupid?

  Tyrice the doorman and I are on the opposite sides of the skin tone spectrum. He’s as dark as I am pale. Either she’s assuming Tyrice is adopted or she’s as dumb as she appears.

  The man grunts and lets the idiotic trio through the door. The kids waiting in line express their unhappiness. My gaze follows the girls’ scrawny frames.

  Calling their outfits lingerie would be greatly overstating the amount of fabric used. Their skirts are so short I
see the folds under their ass cheeks.

  I’m wearing my long coat.

  I’m the idiot. Of course, Tyrice won’t allow me into the club. He doesn’t think I’m suitably dressed. I shrug out of the coat and fold it over one arm.

  “Put it back on,” one of the club kids yells.

  “She’s blinded me.”

  I disregard the rude comments, keeping my attention on Tyrice. The doorman’s gaze sweeps over me.

  Is that a glint of approval I see in his eyes?

  “Is this better?” I beam at him, trying to ignore the fact that I’m standing on a sidewalk in downtown Toronto wearing a babydoll, boy shorts and heels.

  “That’s much better.” His voice deepens. “But I still can’t let you in, ma’am.”

  “Oh.” There has to be a way to convince him. “What if I slipped you some bills?”

  “The club would still be at capacity.” He shuts down my attempt at bribing him.

  With money.

  No one can resist my cookies. I open the tin. “Cookie?”

  Tyrice hesitates for a moment, looks at me, at the cookies, at me once more. “You didn’t poison these or anything, did you?”

  “You should ask that.” I nod, approving of the question. “The most successful serial killers in history have used poison.” I’m addicted to crime shows, especially those involving serial killers. They often prey on the homeless. If I ever end up on the street, I’m determined not to be one of their victims. “But that’s in history. Now, tests are almost certain to detect it as the cause of death. They’d trace the poison back to the cookies in your stomach. Everyone here has seen me offer them to you.” I gaze pointedly at the long line of club kids. “I’d get caught.”

  Tyrice stares at me.

  I smile gently. “If I was going to kill you, I’d be more careful.” I’ve watched enough shows to know how to kill someone and not get caught.

  “Ummm…” He hesitates.

  “My boyfriend, Edward Langston, is a lawyer. He can vouch for me.” If I’m ever permitted to see him. “The cookies are safe. I promise.”

  Tyrice studies me.

  I look as innocent as possible.

  “Okay.” The doorman finally yields. “Thank you.” He selects one.